Temporary Retirement

Today is the second birthday of If Satan Were Anal Retentive, and I've decided that's as good a time as any to set this blog down for a bit and give it a rest.

I'm a big fan of temporary retirement.  It offers a great opportunity to press a reset button, take a breath, and see what happens next.

Over the next several months, I'll be focusing on some pretty significant tasks, such as:  

• attempting to get my books published (impossible as that may seem)
• finding a new place for my family to live
• securing a source of income so I can get a puppy

Yup.  Lots to do.  But I'm looking forward to all of it.

Is it bad that I've already named the puppy I don't have yet?

Many thanks to those of you who not only read this silliness but also encourage it.  I imagine I'll pick up I.S.W.A.R. again in the not too distant future.  I'm far too opinionated to stay quiet for long.

I also find no end of amusement in posing this way for pictures.

My Postmortem Crush

I heart you, Robert.

Since I've been living on Orcas Island, I have fallen in love with a dead man.  Some of you may think that's weird, but here's the thing:  I'm pretty weird.  I resigned myself to that fact many years ago.  So really, falling for a dead guy is just par for the course.

I have become most infatuated with Robert Moran, the man responsible for Moran State Park - one of the most lovely places I've ever been - and a man who also happens to have died 32 years before I was born.

Something tells me this will end with:  "He loves me not...because he's dead."

If you're married, it must be a little strange having your spouse tell you she's fallen for someone who's deceased.  When I told my husband about my growing feelings for Robert, I think he may have experienced about 3 seconds of defensiveness before remembering I was talking about a dead man.  At that point, I believe his predominant feeling shifted to one in the "how-on-earth-did-I-end-up-married-to-this-person" category.

Here is why I love Robert Moran:

He believed in the healing properties of forests, mountains, and water. 

So do I!

He could feel there was magic on Orcas Island. 

So can I!

He was an amateur photographer. 

So am I!

He loved introducing his loved ones to beautiful places. 

So do I!

He was a multimillionaire philanthropist. 

Um...I've totally heard of those people!

And that is why I love the man who set aside almost 4000 acres of his personal property to create a place people could enjoy eternally.  Robert, you rock.  You're my dead BFF.

What a guy!

Cheap Like Free

Soon after beginning careers in public education and social services, my sister and I realized that we were never going to be raking in the dough. Several years ago she came to visit me in California, and in choosing our activities for the week, our primary criterion was:  "Cheap.  Like free." Since then, Cheap Like Free! has been one of my battle cries.

I think about "cheap like free" a great deal here on Orcas. Since I presently have no income and want to hold onto my meager savings for as long as possible so I can continue this full-time writing gig, I engage in many cheap like free activities. Here are some examples:

#1 - Stare out the window

But don't think for one moment you'll look this cute while you're doing it

Staring out the window is totally free. It is especially enjoyable these days because my neighbor has adorable dogs who run around and play all the time, my lawn is visited by deer each morning, and a resident bald eagle flies past at least once a day. It might not be as fun if your window faces a brick wall, but I guess that's where your imagination would need to kick in. And conveniently enough, imagining stuff is also cheap like free.

#2 - Hike. A lot. In general, walk everywhere. Until you wear out all of your shoes, walking is completely free. While you're walking, if you encounter little pretty things, consider picking them up and putting them somewhere other people will be likely to see them. This is part of the culture on Orcas, and it is precious. If you already have a camera, take pictures.  This is also cheap like free, and really fun.

#3 - Clean

Y not, indeed?  It's free!

These days, I clean my home like a mad fiend. However, this particular cheap like free activity has motivated me to think really hard about alternatives, since cleaning pretty much sucks and is super boring. And that brings us to our next cheap like free activity, namely...

#4 - Think about stuff

There are so many things to think about that this activity can take up lots of time.  Since smiling (which is also free) has several health benefits (e.g., reducing stress; lowering blood pressure; boosting your immune system), try thinking happy thoughts.  Recall funny occurrences from the past or other fond memories. For example, you could think about the looks on the faces of Mitt Romney's supporters when it finally dawned on them that he'd lost the election. Ha!

#5 - Write. There is an infinite amount of writing to do. Write emails to your loved ones. Write blog posts. Write two novels at the same time. Write to your pen pal. If you don't have a pen pal, get one. If you hate writing, then read. There is also an absurd amount of reading to do. If you don't like writing OR reading...well, then you're probably not reading this. But if, for some weird reason, someone who doesn't like reading is reading this:  what the hell is wrong with you? Learn to like reading! You are depriving yourself of some ideal cheap like freeness!

#6 - Talk to people. This, of course, is not my preferred activity, but I sometimes do it anyway, simply by virtue of the fact that it is free. 

Yeah, cheap like free!

#7 - Talk to yourself. I do this a whole lot more than #6.

#8 - Attend free community events - all of them, even if it means you're a regular at children's story time at the public library. (Don't knock it till ya try it! Sometimes the readers use funny voices to represent the different characters, and it's fabulous.)  And speaking of the library...

#9 - Go to the library

My home away from home these days

I've got big heart love for the library. I can hang out for hours without spending any money, and no one questions my right to be there. That is very unusual for your typical indoor venue. In the San Juan Islands, walk-on passengers can ferry between the islands for free, so sometimes I take the hour-long journey over to Friday Harbor just to hang out in their library.

#10 - Volunteer. And if the place where you're volunteering happens to be within walking distance (like the animal shelter located 2 miles from my house), by the time you walk there, volunteer for a few hours, and walk home, you've taken a big ole chunk of free out of your day.

People will also thank you profusely and tell you how awesome you are, which is always nice

#11 - Drink water. Water is totally free. I drink so much water that my pee is basically clear. If your budget allows for cheap-but-not-completely-free, try drinking coffee, tea, lemonade, cocoa, or pretty much any other beverage that is NOT ALCOHOL. To explain the intensity behind my all-caps declaration, I offer this poignant tale.

I have a dear friend who is a single mom. Despite the fact that she lives in one of the most expensive cities in this country, she manages to make a very nice life for herself and her daughter.  Recently she told me that she was buying a condo in Colombia.  When I asked her how in the world she had the money to do such a thing, her response was:  "Pues, Mija - I don't drink."

If you are a regular drinker and would like to engage in a truly depressing activity, get out a calculator and figure out how much money you spend on alcoholic beverages annually. Include drinks you purchase at the store, happy hours, bar hopping evenings, drinks you order when you go out to eat, etc. Then multiply that number by the number of years you have been a regular drinker. Finally, stare at your final number for ten seconds, and then take a look around to see what you've got to show for it.

Yup, there it goes

I can pretty much guarantee you will not find a condo in Colombia.

Don't get me wrong - I'm not saying don't drink. I'm just saying that drinking is not cheap like free. However, if you follow drinkers around and collect their empties, you can make a pretty penny at the bottle return center.

One Stop From Crazy Town

Recently, my husband taught me about the handy voice recording application on my phone.  Before I learned about that snazzy app, I brought a notebook along on my hikes, and whenever I got an idea for my writing, I stopped, opened my pack, got out the notebook, and held it awkwardly as I wrote out my thoughts with stiff, usually very cold hands.  Now all I have to do is whip out my phone, hit "record," and talk.  Hooray!  

However, to others on the trail, I'm certain this activity makes me look like I am totally cuckoopants.  It's one thing to go on a solo hike and talk to yourself (which, by the way, I do all the time).  It is quite another to go for a hike and talk to your phone.  Also, since I'm currently writing a fantasy about dragons, if a fellow hiker were to hear what I was saying, it would be something like:  "When the Captor informs the Red Matriarch that she slaughtered his family, she's unable to believe it.  She's been opposing the Valtamani Aza about the dragons' human hunting practices for hundreds of years."  Yes.  See?  A totally normal thing to discuss with one's phone.

Although I suppose I could seem weirder

Unfortunately, this is not my only activity as of late that makes me appear utterly whackadoo.  In my prolonged solitude, I seem to have lost the ability to distinguish between my internal and external voice, which makes for some interesting public appearances.  For example, the other day I was standing in a grocery store aisle comparing canned tomato prices and suddenly remembered an incident from the previous evening when my cat fell out of his bed.  I proceeded to burst out laughing, much to the alarm of the shoppers around me, and then remarked, out loud, "Poor little buddy." 

I had a similar incident at the public library yesterday.  I was using an online thesaurus to find another word for "soft" in a passage I was writing describing a man's skin.  When the helpful online resource offered me these words:

• doughy
• flabby
• flimsy
• fluffy
• furry
• gelatinous
• mushy
• pulpy
• squashy; and 
• squishy

...I erupted into uncontrollable giggles ten times in a row.  I then packed up my computer and left before anyone could call the police.

[In case you're wondering, after careful deliberation, I decided to go with "squashy," so the sentence now reads:  She shivered at the sensation of his warm, squashy skin beneath her fingers.  I thought warm and squashy, when paired together, invoked a pleasant image, much like a pumpkin pie fresh out of the oven.]

Mmmm, warm AND squashy!

Thankfully, I am more protected when acting like a lunatic in my own home.  I live at the end of a remote, dirt road, so no one can peep through my windows and see me chattering endlessly to myself, yelling at my computer (this could be due to Pandora's relentless advertisements or seeing something any Republican just said about anything), and periodically leaping out of my chair for spontaneous bouts of salsa dancing.  I also sometimes decide I'm going to make myself cocoa and then proceed to jump up and down with happiness.  Even the dog and cat have begun giving me weird looks, and when your pets start to look at you that way, you can be pretty sure you've gone 'round the bend.

By the way, it is totally normal to take this type of self-portrait while hiking

I am also thankful that people cannot hear me inside my car as I enthusiastically greet every animal I pass.  "Hello, cow!  Yo, crow.  What's shakin', sheep?"  Unfortunately, the car does have windows, through which people can see the ridiculous things I do to amuse myself while driving.  For example, when I pass the airport and see the "Caution:  Low Flying Aircraft" sign, I duck and cover my head, and whenever I see a sign that says "Watch For Ice," I give a wide-eyed, alarmed look and stare wildly all around me.  I also throw my hands in the air and say, "WHEE!" whenever I head down a steep hill, but really, who doesn't?

I suppose things could be worse.  I'm probably not going to make any friends on island, but perhaps, by the time I leave Orcas, I will be the stuff of legend.  I may even become as famous as Umbrella Man.

The Santa Cruzans out there will understand

Now there's a healthy goal.

Editing Can Suck It

For the past week, I've been editing my book.  Words cannot truly express what a horrible process this is.  For those of you who have not edited a book, but have read a book, I can explain it only as follows:

You pick up a book and read it very slowly.  As soon as you've finished, you turn back to the beginning and read it again, even more slowly.  In fact, you read most of it out loud to yourself.  Some pages you stay on for hours, reading them over and over and over.  After a few days of that, you finally get to the end of the book, and then you think - you know what?  I should probably go back to the beginning and read this again.  And you do.

This process has made me start hating my book.  It has also made me start hating my life.  And I think I'm beginning to look like this guy:

Seriously.  I've even grown a beard.

However, editing has provided me with ample time to engage in a variety of escapist activities, including:

(a) planning out the tattoo I will get if and when I ever have money again
(b) watching NFL games featuring teams of no interest to me
(c) doing hundreds of push-ups
(d) cleaning obsessively
(e) extending daily hikes from 5 miles to 7 miles, or sometimes more like 10, since the woods blessedly contain no editing opportunities
(f) checking email every 3 minutes
(g) meticulously picking sap out of my dog's fur
(h) checking online to see which animals have been adopted from the shelter where I used to volunteer, even though I don't know any of the animals there anymore
(i) writing a blog post
(j) darning socks

Yes, I have really done all of these things.  And more.

When this nightmarish activity is finally over and I decide I have a complete first draft, I will send it to a group of peers who have agreed, most graciously, to critique it for me.  After all the time and energy I've devoted to creating - and then fucking editing - this book, my greatest fear is that their response to the draft will be as follows:

That would really suck.  Even worse than editing.

Life On Island

My new home.  Can you see me?

I have now been living on Orcas Island, or "on island," for two weeks. Rather than saying "on the island" or "off the island," the locals here say "on island" and "off island," because folks on Orcas do not like the word "the."

In many ways, it's a relief to be out of Portland. Here is something I learned during the three years I lived there:  if you love sun and dancing and aren't a fan of excessive facial hair or vintage clothing, then Portland might not be the town for you. And if your answer to the question "Ducks or Beavers?" is "Raiders," then you probably don't belong in Oregon.

I do miss giggling when driving past this place, however.

So far, I am in love with island living and am already lamenting the fact that I will only be here for three months.  Orcas has been very welcoming. On the first night, I saw a shooting star. On the first morning, a river otter ran across my yard. I am also delighted by my encounters with intelligent dog owners. When I tell people here that my dog is aggressive, they reign in their dogs and say, "Thank you so much for telling me," rather than saying, "It's okay!  My dog is really nice!" while allowing their off-leash dog to romp merrily towards my dog. Argh. Idiots. Don't those people realize it's even more upsetting when Libby bites a nice dog in the face? 

It's pretty easy to internalize Orcas' laid back style. Before coming here, I had a hard time staying less than 10 mph above the speed limit. On Orcas, I find myself looking at speed limit signs and thinking, "What's the limit? Okay, 35. How fast am I going? 23. Hmm. Well, 35 just seems excessive."  

My current state of utter seclusion seems to be a great fit.  In general, I find that I have much more benevolent feelings towards humanity when my interactions with actual people are primarily smile- and wave-based.

Isn't it nice just waving and not speaking to one another?

However, I believe there may be some pitfalls to spending too much time by myself, and I have begun compiling a list of Signs You've Perhaps Been Alone Too Long, including:

#1 - You become convinced that Pandora is reading your thoughts and attempting to communicate with you via its song selections. You may also find yourself arguing, out loud, with Pandora (e.g., "It's not my fault I don't like that crappy Nickelback song you chose! Why must you punish me with advertising?!").

#2 - You realize one morning that you've been using the same fork for an entire week. You decide it's time to start using a different fork, and when you look through all the available forks and choose a new one, it gives you a little thrill.

Oooo, perfect!  I can't wait to try it out!

#3 - You begin speaking on behalf of your pets and eventually move to creating intricate dialogues between them.

#4 - You can't remember the last time you had an actual conversation with another person. Was it yesterday? Last week? 2008? Even the sound of your own voice sometimes startles you. When you find yourself in a situation that requires verbal communication, you discover that you have lost the ability to have a cliche conversation. Someone asks, "How are you?" and you answer, "There's a painful blister forming on my heel," or, "I'm having extreme PMS symptoms this month," or, "I'm getting kind of nervous about my financial situation." 

I need one of these as a warning to others

However, in general I am most definitely enjoying this state of prolonged solitude, and one of the many luxuries this experience has granted me is the time to read over my journals from the past fifteen years. Here's a selection of my favorite lines thus far:

• Last night I only slept long enough to have a dream that I was having insomnia.
• I wish I could learn from my mistakes before making them.
• Life is funny sometimes. Not ha-ha funny, but blow-my-head-off funny.
• I was such a self-righteous little shit as a kid...um, and still am. But now I'm right.

And here is my all time favorite quote from Mom, also preserved in one of the journals:

"Try not to kill anyone."

:)

You Know Me - I Live To Serve

Here I am!

Yesterday I was hiking with my dog Libby, and we ended up traveling much farther than I had intended.  This sort of thing happens to me on a regular basis, given my utter lack of a sense of direction and extreme difficulty comprehending whatever maps are trying to tell me.  I didn't mind the extended walk, but I hadn't brought any water for Libby, and by about mile 6 or 7, she was panting pretty hard.

Thankfully, we soon arrived at a lakeside, and I stopped so Libby could take a drink.  Libby was definitely interested in the lake water, but it was just out of her reach, so I decided to be a super helpful owner and hold her back end while she lapped up the water.  This maneuvering worked for approximately 2 seconds before my foot slipped and SPLOOSH!  Into the lake Libby went.

Now my Libby is not a water dog.  Other than utilizing it for drinking purposes, she pretty much wants nothing whatsoever to do with water.  Therefore, she was quite despondent about this state of affairs.  She rocketed herself out of the lake instantaneously and then looked at me with a stony gaze that said, quite simply, "I don't even know you anymore."

Even now, she won't deign to look at me

This was certainly not the first time in my life that an attempt at benevolence had unintended, calamitous results.  In fact, as a wet, cranky Libby and I continued our walk along the trail yesterday, I recalled three such events which, despite the fact that they occurred several years ago, still cause stomach cramps when I recall them.  And here they are, in chronological order:

#1 - Throw Dad's Money To The Wind

When I was about 7 or 8 years old, I was traveling in the back of my dad's convertible with my dad driving and his friend Roy sitting shotgun.  My dad had a check in an envelope and was looking for a secure place to store it once we hit the highway and picked up speed, so I offered to hold it for him.  Before he handed it to me, he said, "This check is for a lot of money.  Be careful.  Hold onto it tightly."  He handed me the envelope.

Because I was a sarcastic little shit even way back then, as soon as I had the envelope in my hand, I said, "So I shouldn't do this?" and waved the envelope haphazardly in the air, intending only to startle my dad but maintain a firm grip on the envelope.  However, the wind had a different idea and immediately whisked the envelope right out of my hand.

Ha ha!  Um...oops.

My dad and Roy spent about the next hour searching the side of the highway for the missing envelope, which, thankfully, they did find.  I offered to assist in the search, but my dad declined, stating that it was too dangerous.  However, in retrospect, he probably didn't want me to "help" because he had just learned that his daughter sucks at helping.  So instead I curled up into a ball of patheticness in the back of the car, thinking about what a little turd I'd turned out to be.

#2 - Get That Batterer To The Altar

In my early-20s, I was the coordinator of a batterers' intervention program.  In that position, I was charged not only to work with the charming men who'd been arrested for beating their partners, but also to have regular contact with the victims of the crimes they had perpetrated.

One day I met with the girlfriend of a man in my program.  She explained to me that her partner was continually accusing her of being interested in other men and stepping out on him.  She said, "I know his ex-girlfriend cheated on him, but I'm not her!  I would never do that, but he just won't trust me."

The next day, that very guy came to my office.  He said that he knew his girlfriend had met with me the day before, and she'd told him it was helpful talking to me, so he wanted to try it out, too.  He talked ad nauseam about the trouble he was having trusting her, although she'd never given him any cause to doubt her loyalty.  I asked him if he remembered what I'd talked about regarding trust during our last group session.  He didn't (what a surprise!), so I reiterated the message:  if you find that you cannot trust your partner, for whatever reason, then you should not be with that person, because you will try to control her, and that is abusive.  I spoke for quite awhile about the fact that he needed to address his trust issues, and until he was able to move past them, he probably shouldn't be in an intimate relationship.

A few nights later, that guy asked to speak during our group session.  I gave him the floor, and here is what he said:  "You guys should listen to Kelly.  I had a meeting with her the other day, and she told me I just needed to trust my girl, so you know what I did?  Yesterday I took her out to Little Palm Island, and I married her!"

Communication breakdoooown!

As one, all of the other men in the group spun around to witness my thinly-veiled, horrified expression. One of them even burst out laughing and then said, "Is that what you had in mind, Kelly?"

A few months later, that guy was arrested, once again, for domestic violence.  Nice work, Al.

#3 - Memories?  Who Needs Those?

A few years ago, my mother, sister, and I took a trip to England to celebrate my mom's 60th birthday.  Throughout our amazing adventure, my mom and I tag teamed taking pictures.  Since we each had a camera, whenever we encountered a photo op, one of us would snap the picture, and that way, between the two of us, we captured all of our fabulous experiences.

On the last day of our trip, my mom's camera lost its ability to focus.  She tried changing some of the settings, but nothing seemed to work.  Therefore, I offered to help.  (Uh-oh - cue The Doom Song!)

I fiddled around with the camera until it asked me if I wanted to reformat it.  Hmmm, I thought, that sounds like a good idea!  Who couldn't use a little reformatting?  So I said - sure!  Go ahead and get reformatted!  

Are you sure? the camera asked.  

But of course! I replied confidently.

And that is precisely how I erased all of my mom's pictures.  Every.  Single.  One.

Shut up, Nelson.

In conclusion, folks, if you ever find yourself needing assistance, and I offer to provide it, be afraid.  You should probably save yourself the headache and just take a pass.

Longing For Simplicity

After my final class at the kickboxing studio I've been attending for the past couple of years, the head trainer stopped me to say goodbye and wish me luck in my future endeavors.  He asked where I was moving and what I was going to do there, and, wincing in anticipation of his follow-up question, I told him I was moving to Orcas Island to finish the book I've been writing.  And then, of course, he replied, "Oh, really?  What's your book about?"

Ugh.  I have grown to dread this question for two reasons:

1. I suck at talking about my writing, and
2. That's a very personal question, and I shouldn't have to answer it for any rando who happens to cross my path.

So I gave the trainer my "you're-a-stranger-who-has-no-right-to-ask-me-that-question" answer, which is:  "It's about laughing at human tragedy."  His response was simply to stare back at me in silence, blinking, which got awkward real quick, so I decided to offer him a longer, even crappier answer to that question.  When I finally blundered to the end of my rambling, incoherent explanation, the trainer informed me that he's also writing a book.  I asked what it's about, and he replied, "T'ai chi and qigong."

Oh, really?  How Zen of you.

Okay, consider me green with envy.  How I long for an answer like his!  T'ai chi and qigong?  Seriously?  What a marvelously simple response!  Why can't my book be about t'ai chi and qigong, or puppies, or World War II, or something else I could say in 5 seconds or less?

My current book topic issue is much like my employment situation has been for the past 15 years.  That pesky "What do you do?" question has plagued my existence due to the fact that I've never had a simple response, like, "I'm a dentist," or, "I'm a lone cowhand."  No, my answers have required multi-layered, complicated explanations involving social justice theory, federal funding issues, nonprofit business models, and brief lessons about foster care, mental illness, domestic violence statistics, and best practices for human behavior modification.  Whenever I found myself at some sort of gathering with my sister and someone asked us what we did for a living, my sister would say, "I'm a fourth grade teacher."  And then I would sigh, hand the person a large glass of wine and say, "Have a seat.  This is gonna take awhile."

What is particularly annoying is the knowledge that, for the most part, people only ask questions like "What's your book about?" and "What do you do?" to be polite, not out of any true desire to know the answers.  And yet, those questions historically have caused me to spiral into an abyss of frustration and anxiety.  Therefore, I think I might start lying.  That seems like a good self-preservation strategy.  When someone asks what my book is about, I'll just give the first, simple answer that pops into my head. 

"It's about dirt."
"It's about Pluto's fall to non-planet status."
"It's about six-toed cats."
"It's about a dentist who falls in love with a lone cowhand."

I think I need this book

At least now I have an easy answer to the question "What do you do?"  I can say, "I'm a novelist."  Except that simple answer will then lead to a series of complicated questions.  Hmmm.  Maybe I'll just say I'm unemployed.  That usually serves as a good a conversation killer.

Yes, just like LOL.  I hate you, LOL!

Big Girls Cry Annually

Two weeks from now, I will leave Portland to live on Orcas Island by myself for three months. While I'm excited about this opportunity, I think it's very likely that I will spend the first 24 hours on the island just bawling my eyes out. This would be a timely occurrence, not only because I'm experiencing a huge amount of change and loss right now, but also because I believe I'm due for my annual cry.

My husband is an excellent and well-versed crier. He cries when he's sad. He cries when he's happy. He cries when someone else is sad or happy. He cries when he's sleepy, startled, concerned, or simply feels like crying. I really admire his ability to engage regularly in the healthy, cleansing ritual of shedding tears. I, on the other hand, cry when I yawn or cut onions. Even when a situation is definitely cry-worthy, instead of crying, I find myself thinking, "I should totally be crying right now."

Over the past few days, I've experienced several endings that could or perhaps even should have been cry-worthy. I haven't cried yet. Occasionally I feel sudden, overwhelming emotions begin to flow over me, but my brain kicks in with the message: Yuck, negative emotions! Abort! Abort!  And then I stop thinking about whatever circumstance is creating the emotional reaction. I am certain this is an unhealthy practice. I'm probably going to have a brain aneurysm.

Eventually, however, I know I'm going to cry. It's been quite a while. At this point, I probably have about 2 gallons of stockpiled tears waiting to come out. I know how my annual cry cycle works, having gone through it enough times. For 364 days, I stoically face adversity without shedding a tear. But on the 365th day, something minuscule happens (e.g., I stub a toe; I spill my coffee; I see one of those dog food commercials where the dog and the kid grow up together and then the kid goes off to college and the dog sits on the front porch, waiting for him to come home), and I bawl like a baby for hours.

Ow, my toe!  And everything else that's happened for the past year! 

At the end of this ordeal, I'm left with a pounding headache and a feeling of extreme relief. Thus, the cycle begins again.

I've had quite a few periods in my life like this one, wherein I make the decision to discard the majority of the stabilizing elements of my life and start all over again. The first time I did this as an adult, I called one of my friends and told her, very calmly, that over the next month I planned to systematically drop everything in my life, pack a bag, go home to my parents, and go into crisis. She responded with a lot of support and encouragement, then remarked, "By the way, only you would plan a crisis."

I suppose I'm doing a similar thing right now - scheduling an appointment to cry in the not-too-distant future rather than just crying in the moment like a normal person. Although I realize this is bizarre behavior, I still find myself comforted by the knowledge that, once I'm on Orcas, I'll have a full day set aside to dehydrate myself via the violent expulsion of ten million tears.

Going to Orcas this fall is the fulfillment of a dream for me. I get to live in a gorgeous, magical environment and devote three months of concentrated time to completing the novel I've been working on for the past year. My observation as a human being in this world is that it is a rare thing indeed to experience the realization of a dream.

That being said, I am trying not to read too much into the fact that the calendar on my wall features the following image this month:

Eep.

How To Kill Romance In One Easy Step

The summer I turned twenty, I experienced my first potential summer romance.

I had never in my life believed in romance, at least in the way it's peddled by pop culture.  Even though I smiled when Crocodile Dundee climbed over all of those kind, helpful New Yorkers to reunite with his love interest on a subway platform, deep inside I knew that kind of stuff was complete and total bullshit.

However, at the beginning of the summer I would turn twenty, when I met a very cute boy, we exchanged numbers and then started spending all our free time together, my ideas about romance, or at least the storybook "summer romance," began to change.  And when he did things like surprise me at work with a picnic lunch, write a song about me and sing it to me over the phone, and invite me to walk on the beach and watch the full moon rise, I began to think that perhaps rom-com, sweep-a-girl-off-her-feet type romance actually did exist in this world.  And, embarrassing as this is to admit, I felt simply elated about the possibility.

The night that particular concept went supernova in the life of Al was the very night the boy asked me to accompany him to the beach to watch the full moon rise.  Imagine it, folks:  a Cape Cod beach late at night, an enormous, gorgeous full moon shining in the sky and reflecting off the water, plucky foxes running hither and thither between the dunes and the waves - I mean seriously, it was a fucking postcard of romantic bliss.

A backdrop of romantic perfection!  What could possibly go wrong?

And then this happened.

The boy spread a blanket on the sand for us to lie on.  We stared appreciatively at the moon and stars for a bit, and then he leaned over and kissed me.  After a few moments of idyllic summer romance kissing, he pulled back, looked down at me and quietly said, "Do you know who you look like in the moonlight?"

Holy shit! thought I.  Here it is!  My uber-romantic moment!  What is he going to say?

Allowing myself to get swept away in the moment, imagining the vast array of lovely females from whom he could choose to make this the most glorious experience of my life, I gazed up into his eyes and asked, "Who?"

And then he said this:

"Al from Happy Days."

Al.  From motherfucking Happy Days.  Yes.  That is what he said.

To add some context, here's me the summer I was informed of this remarkable resemblance:

Posing with a mannequin at the leather store where I worked

And here is Al from Happy Days:

Shmerbing around his diner, as per usual

Please tell me you don't get it, either.

However, at the time the boy made that statement, I was so far gone in my romantic fantasy world that I thought I must have misheard him.  So I smiled up at him and said, "What?"

Without a hint of remorse, the boy replied confidently, "Yeah, I don't know if it's the shadows or the moonlight doing something weird with your face, but you seriously look just like Al from Happy Days right now.  It's pretty strange."

And that is the exact moment when romance disappeared from my life forever.  Poof.  Just like that.  I looked at the boy and said, "Oh.  That is strange," then stood up and began walking down the beach in the direction of my car.  I don't really remember what the boy did, as he had been instantaneously compartmentalized into the "Dead To Me" category of humans in my life.

Seventeen years of accumulated anger and sarcasm later, I pity the poor fool who would dare to ask me if I know who I look like in the moonlight.  Even if that sad sucker had planned to say something complimentary, he would be faced with a terrifying glare and the furious, rapid fire response, "I don't know, Dick Cheney?  Alfred Hitchcock?  Tom Petty?  Fuck you, too, buddy!"

Stupid illusory romance.  Hmph.

Al from Happy Days, my ass.

The FAQ Soiree

That's me in the red

One of my favorite things about getting older is the fact that, as each day passes, I give less and less of a shit what anyone thinks about me.  I find this state of mind to be tremendously liberating and fabulous.

Now that I am rapidly approaching my 37th birthday, I finally feel completely comfortable identifying as an antisocial introvert.  Several years ago I thought I was ready to begin openly self-identifying in that way, but when I tried it out with a friend of mine, she informed me that my proclamation was "a real asshole thing to say."  After receiving that feedback, I decided I should continue attempting, or at least pretending, to be a quasi-normal individual, readily able to tolerate regular fraternization with fellow members of my species.


However, apparently now I am officially old enough that I can't even bring myself to care what my friends might think, because lately I've found myself making statements (out loud, mind you, not just in my head) such as:

• No, I don't want to go to that festival/parade/gathering.  There will be far too many humans there, and I hate humans.
• No, I don't listen to talk radio.  I don't want to hear people talking.  I just want them to shut the fuck up.
• No, I don't want to go out.  I would prefer to stay home with my dogs and stare at the wall.
• Stop making sounds.  Seriously.  All of you need to stop making sounds.  Immediately.  Thank you.

Ah, yes.  It feels great.

Quite naturally, then, I am not a fan of parties.  In fact, when I hear the word "party," particularly when being invited to one, I tend to have a mild panic attack while simultaneously becoming extremely irritated ("WHY would you invite me to a party when you KNOW it's gonna give me a panic attack??").  Sure, it's a different story when the party involves some sort of activity, like dancing or roping cattle, but when the event is labeled simply as a generic "party," that's when Al's heart palpitations begin in earnest.

I would merrily attend this party, however.

Unfortunately, parties happen all the fucking time.  People love parties.  They seem to live for creating and attending these panic-attack-inducing events.  I envision them cackling evilly and sticking pins into a voodoo doll resembling me whilst engaging in their complicated party-planning endeavors.


Small talk is, in my humble opinion, one of the most tragic components of non-activity-based parties.  I find it both painful and pointless, which is a dastardly combination.  Therefore, since I understand that parties are going to continue existing despite my protestations, I have recently come up with a party concept that would eliminate small talk.  Under the conditions of my party model, those gathered would have no need to have dozens of similar, introductory conversations in a row.  In order to avoid the p-word altogether, I will call this new model The FAQ Soiree.

Where's the soiree at, yo?

Here's how it works.  You receive an invitation.  If you RSVP with a "yes," the host then sends you a short questionnaire to complete and bring along with you to the soiree.  The questionnaire could include, but is not limited to, the following inquiries:

1. What is your name?  If it is an unusual name, please provide some background information (i.e., cultural significance; hippie parents; etc.).
2. How do you know the host(s) of this gathering?
3. What do you do for work?  What do you enjoy about your work?  What sucks about it?
4. Are you from this area?  If not, what brought you here?  If so, what's kept you here?
5. What do you think about this weather we've been having lately?
6. What is your opinion about [latest political thing going on]?
7. What is your opinion about [latest random celebrity gossip]?
8. What is your opinion about [latest national or international tragedy]?
9. What did you think about [current blockbuster movie]?
10. Do you have children?  Pets?  Do you like them?

At the soiree, you will not be permitted to huddle in tight clusters with people you already know.  Instead, you are expected to wander around until you come into contact with an unfamiliar soiree-goer.  At that point, you will exchange and review one another's FAQ sheets.  That way, you'll know all the random bits of bullshit that people deem necessary to know about one another when first meeting, but without having to ask or answer the same dumb questions over and over. 


After completing this process, you and your partner have the task of thinking of something to talk about that has nothing to do with the basic information you've just read.  You may choose to talk about something on a large scale, like:  "In the race towards ultimate enlightenment or ultimate destruction, where do you believe humanity will arrive first?" or something on a small scale, like:  "What do you think is going on with that spider over there?"  Since you will already know, for example, that your new pal has three kids and likes them just fine, instead of asking whether or not he or she has kids, you could ask something more interesting such as:  "Do you think a child's first word carries any long-term significance?" or:  "Do you think your kid would make a good President?  Farmer?  Psychic?  Police officer?  Why or why not?"


I believe that the FAQ Soiree would be the perfect remedy for party blahs.  Random gatherings could go from this:

to this:

This shark is totally smiling at you

I know, very random.  But I did a Google Image search for "fascinating," and the shark picture really spoke to me.